


My Body's Strained But God I Like It

by KiiKitsune



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Asphyxiation, Blackmail, Bondage, Consent Play, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Drugging, Exhibitionism, Gags, Humiliation, Light Sadism, M/M, Manhandling, Marking, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Rape Role-play, Role Reversal, Roleplay, Roughness, Somnophilia, Stalking, Submission, Threats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiiKitsune/pseuds/KiiKitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Stiles decide to play up the serial killer/sheriff's son dynamic they had going on back when they first met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting the Scene

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in some nebulous future where Stiles and Derek are both emotionally stable and have been in a relationship for a while. It’s a series of oneshots, each describing a different scene as if it were happening (though Stiles probably knows a lot more about sex than he did when he was a teenager). It’s all consensual role play, but I really just wanted to write my all consent kinks out, so I’ll leave the aftercare/safety aspects up to your imagination after the first chapter. Individual warnings will be posted with each chapter.

When the idea first comes up, it's because Stiles sits down one day and realises how hilariously wrong it is that the sheriff's son harboured a known criminal in the sheriff's house. Of course, it made sense at the time, and Derek wasn't actually a serial killer, but it still seemed like the type of thing that soap operas were made of.

When he brings it up with Derek, the older man agrees. And, because they're already in bed, their conversation spirals to the raunchier side of the situation. Derek laughs it off, because it didn't happen like that at all, but once Stiles' mind goes there he finds himself practically swimming in all the possibilities. There are just so many ways that it could have all played out. Stiles can't help but write them all down.

Derek isn't laughing then.

"So I guess the question is; which one should we try first?" Stiles says, watching Derek's eyes darken as he reads the list, "I'll even let you have first pick."

“We’re discussing this before we do anything.”

“I can live with that.”

The list gets left out for the next week, and on the following Friday Derek picks.


	2. Scene One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek pays Stiles a late night visit.
> 
> Chapter warnings for: noncon, somnophilia, stalking, exhibitionism, general creepiness, come marking, and ‘loving’ dirty talk.

The boy doesn't wake when Derek slips his fingers under the barely open window, pulling it up completely and climbing through. The breeze makes him shiver though, his blankets kicked down and tangled around his legs, shirt riding too high and boxers too low.

Stiles is laying belly-down, head to the side, mouth open. Derek places his hand over the boy's bare spine, warm thumb stroking away the goose bumps. The boy pushes back against the heat, rubbing his face into the sheets as he slowly comes to.

Derek slides the hand on his spine to his side, grabbing hard and flipping the boy onto his back. He's wide awake then, flailing and disoriented, but Derek is on him. He presses the boy into the mattress with a hand over his mouth and knees on his thighs. The boy pushes at Derek's chest, but he has no real leverage.

It takes a moment, but eventually the boy curls his fingers into Derek's shirt and just stares up at him with wide, wild eyes.

"Good boy," Derek whispers, "Do you know who I am?"

Stiles nods jerkily.

"And do you know why I'm here?"

Stiles nods again unexpectedly, and Derek raises an eyebrow at him. He loosens his grip over Stiles' mouth just enough to allow the boy to mumble.

"Because you’re stupid. What the kind of criminal sneaks into the sheriff's house? My dad is-"

Derek covers his mouth again and smiles, knife sharp.

"Two rooms over. I've been watching, I know."

Stiles squirms at that.

"But that just means you'll have to be quiet. Wouldn't want your dad to find you like this would you?"

Stiles makes a confused noise that trails off into something much higher pitched when Derek moves one knee to press against his crotch. The hand Derek had on his side trails across Stiles' skin, pushing up the worn blue t-shirt as it goes. His fingers find a nipple and Stiles jerks, hands flying down to pull at Derek's wrist.

Derek shifts slightly, moving so his thigh is between Stiles' legs, firm against the boy's cock. He's already half hard. Derek licks his lips, letting the saliva cool before he kisses Stiles' cheek; just beneath the eye, right above Derek's fingers.

Stiles pulls away as much as he can. Derek pinches his nipple in retribution, satisfied when it makes Stiles yelp softly. He rolls the nub briefly, then lets it go to undo his own pants. The hands Stiles had on his wrist hang on right up until Stiles realises where they're going. They fly away, up to pry at the hand over his mouth instead.

"You're gorgeous," Derek says as he gets himself free, "and you don't even know it. But I do. I've seen you, Stiles."

Stiles twists, inadvertently rutting against Derek's thigh. Derek groans and wraps a hand around his prick, jerking himself fast and hard.

"I've seen you. At school. At home. With your one, pathetic little friend. And now here, like this," He twists his wrist on the upstroke, rubbing his leg harder over Stiles, "wanting it so bad. I know you, Stiles."

Stiles shakes his head frantically, eyes squeezing shut. He keens into Derek's palm.

"Look at me," Derek says, quiet but vicious. Stiles' eyes open, looking straight into Derek's, and Derek comes. He feels it shudder through him, wet heat spilling out over his fingertips and onto Stiles' exposed stomach. 

Derek pants and watches rapt as his come slides into the boy's navel and down the sharp cut of his hipbones, slick and pearly in the dim moonlight. 

The boy is breathing hard too, with shaky exhalations through his nose. His cock is straining against his boxers now. He watches Derek warily, body still and tense.

"I'm going to leave now. And when I do, you probably shouldn't make a sound. After all," Derek murmurs, lips ghosting over Stiles' ear, "What would your father think?"

Derek gets up, breaking all contact. He tucks himself away and goes to the window. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat. Derek shoots him one last, lingering look and then he's gone.

Stiles lets out the breath and slowly reaches down to his belly. His fingers find the drying come; viscous and tacky. 

He shudders and slides his hand a few inches lower.


	3. Scene Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek needs a place to stay, and Stiles will give it to him for a price.
> 
> Chapter warnings for: dubdon, blackmail, mild sadism, erotic asphyxiation, and humiliation.

Derek comes to him because he thinks Stiles will be easy to push over. Maybe he is, most of the time, but the ball is in his field now. It's his court. Home stadium. Whatever.

The point is, he has the upper hand because Derek needs a favour and Stiles has no obligation to fulfill it. Derek might try to distract him from it with his general menace and threats of bodily harm, but Stiles is smarter than that.

"You're going to have to earn your keep, you know," Stiles says, and sits down on his desk chair. Sprawls, really.

"What." Derek's voice is flat. It isn't a question. 

Stiles ignores him, "Make me actually want to keep you around. Give me incentive."

Derek glares at him, "I won't kill you."

"Not good enough, buddy. It would be a bad move to hurt the sheriff's son, and you know it."

"What, then," Derek says, and there's actually a hint of question in his tone this time.

Stiles makes a show of looking around the room, pondering over it. It's pointless, really, because he zeros in on Derek anyways. He looks more focused than Derek has ever seen him. 

"Strip."

Derek's glower falters, then fades into plain anger, "What."

"Gees, you're like a broken record. You heard me."

"I'm not going to-"

Stiles stands up and moves towards the closed door. He gets a hand on the knob before Derek jerks him back by his shirt collar. He stumbles and lands on the bed with a grin, "I can shout you know. My dad will hear."

"Your father left for work."

Stiles pulls out his cell phone and wiggles it, thumb hovering over the call button.

Derek takes a step back. He looks down, away, then drops his jacket to the carpet. Stiles hums and lounges back against the headboard.

The shirt comes next. Then the belt.

"Man, this is the angriest strip tease I've ever seen."

Derek stops on the button of his jeans to glare. Stiles shrugs, "It works for you."

He kicks his jeans off then crosses his arms. He sees Stiles track the flex of his biceps as he does it.

"Underwear too. We're going the full monty here."

Derek shucks his underwear with little flourish, then stands with his fists clenched at his sides. Stiles' gaze prickles over his skin.

"You're disgusting. Like, I can actually see the dirt on you. And I can smell you from here."

Derek twitches. He'd spent the past few days on the run. He hadn't had time for a bath, and he'd stopped noticing it after a bit.

Stiles gets up again, grabbing his forearm. Derek jerks it away. Stiles narrows his eyes and grabs it again, "One call, Derek."

Derek relents and lets Stiles drag him to the bathroom. The teen shoves him into the shower and turns on the water. It's icy. Derek tries to crowd back into the corner but Stiles tilts the shower head so the spray hits him anyways. 

Stiles seems to be enjoying the bit of petty revenge.

The temperature rises gradually, until Derek feels warm enough to loosen his muscles and slink forward.

Stiles has his sleeves rolled up, the shower curtain back just enough so he can reach in without getting soaked. He squeezes half the shampoo bottle over Derek's head. The liquid smells too strong, like artificial fruit and chemicals. It stings his eyes, so he shuts them and scrubs at his head to get it all off.

Stiles slides his fingers into the hair over Derek’s forehead and tugs. The sharp pain has him stepping directly into the water. Stiles tilts his head up into it. It's too hot to open his eyes in now, and he gets a burning mouthful when he tries to protest. He spits it out and holds his breath as the water beats against his face.

Stiles pulls him back, and he gasps for air. He opens his eyes, despite the water still dripping in, to look at Stiles. 

"Sadist."

"Maybe. You could get out of it if you really wanted to."

"And then I'd have nowhere to stay."

"Them's the breaks, Mr. Wolf."

Stiles hands him a bar of soap and closes the curtain, "Finish up and come back to my room."

Derek takes his time, mostly out of spite. He contemplates not drying off and dripping all over the Stilinski's carpets, but decides the cold wouldn't be worth it. 

When he does finally make it back to Stiles' room, Stiles is at his computer, typing away. For a moment he thinks Stiles doesn't notice him, but then he says, "Come here."

Derek stands beside him and drops his towel. Stiles doesn't look. 

"Kneel."

He grits his teeth and does so. Stiles hooks his leg around Derek's shoulder and pulls Derek in, under the desk and between his legs.

It's cramped and dark, and a million times more demeaning than Derek had ever thought a desk could be. He can't even see Stiles' face, just his groin and the long, thin fingers unzipping his pants. 

"If I feel teeth, I'm skipping my dad and calling the hunters."

Stiles' penis is... well, a penis. Derek hadn't exactly been planning on getting up close in personal with one any time soon, but Stiles isn't too long or too wide. He can deal.

He starts with a lick and listens to the sudden jump in Stiles' heart rate. Stiles runs a thumb over his temple, back and forth, urging him on. Derek tastes the salt of skin and vinegar of precum, strong and bitter. 

"Put your hands behind your back. Don't move them."

Derek crosses his wrists over his spine and suckles the base of Stiles' cock. It's hard now, curved slightly. Stiles draws him up and back down, guiding Derek's mouth to the head.

The slide is long and a bit too dry. Stiles steadies him through it, hand on the crown of his skull, leaving no room to pull back. Derek focuses on breathing through his nose because, even if Stiles is comparatively average, he's objectively big. 

The hand on his head loosens and Derek jerks back too quickly. Stiles' cock brushes the roof of his mouth, making him cough. He's still got his mouth stuffed though, so it comes out muffled and wet. Spit slides down his chin.

Stiles shushes him and a second hand comes down to smooth his damp hair back. He soothes over Derek's brow and down his cheekbones, dragging his nails lightly over the stubble. Derek moves back down, nose brushing the wiry, dark hair on Stiles' abdomen.

Stiles moans, "Fuck, Derek."

A hot spark races down his neck at the words. His tongue twitches against the wide vein on the underside of Stiles' prick, drawing another noise from the boy.

"I should just keep you like this. Like a dirty secretary or something. Homework would be so much more fun."

Derek's growl is muted but the vibrations make Stiles buck into him. There isn't far to go, at least. 

"Are your hands still behind your back? They are, aren't they. That's good. Keep them there." 

And then Stiles pinches his nose. 

At first it’s gentle, barely even there, and only a bit disconcerting. Then the pressure starts to build. Derek's head is pounding. His eyes start to water and his throat throbs. 

Stiles breathes out a sigh, rolling his hips into Derek just to hear the tiny, choked sounds he makes. 

He comes without a sound; suddenly tensing and releasing straight down Derek's throat. Derek can't swallow, so what doesn't slide down on its own just seeps out around Stiles’ flagging erection. Stiles lets go then, removing his hand and his cock and rolling the chair away from the desk. He watches Derek bend at the waist, coughing up come and finally moving his hands to wipe off his face.

"That was good. Maybe I'll let you hang around after all."

Derek bares his teeth.


	4. Scene Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tries to play vigilante and it backfires.
> 
> Chapter warnings for: noncon, manhandling, rough treatment, pain play, light sadism, bondage, gags and crying.

Scott had told him there was a body buried at the Hale house. They’d planned to go that night, but then Allison.

Just... Allison. 

Maybe Stiles could have waited, but that’s never been something he’s good at and he’s mad enough at Scott to feel a bit reckless. So he drives through the woods with his headlights off and checks to make sure Derek’s car isn’t anywhere in sight before he pulls up and gets out, shovel in hand. 

It’s then he realises Scott had neglected to tell him exactly where the body was hidden. Upturned patches of dirt are a heck of a lot harder to see in the dark. 

He circles around the side of the house, eyes on the ground, but finds nothing. When he gets around to the back he looks up, right at a shiny black Camaro.

“Shit.”

Stiles turns and Derek is there, standing stock-still beside the house. He doesn’t look impressed.

Stiles puts the shovel between them, backing away slowly, “You! Uh, stay right there. I know how to use this thing.”

Derek strides towards him, grabs the blade of the shovel, and yanks it right out of his hands. Stiles watches the tool drop with a dull thump then turns and bolts. 

His face meets the ground before he even gets three steps.

They grapple, briefly, until Derek catches his wrists and pulls them behind his back, tugging them up towards his shoulder blades until he cries out. Derek switches to a one handed grip and uses his free hand to grind Stiles’ face into the dirt.

“You’re trespassing. Again.”

“I know!” Stiles winces at the pebble pressing hard into his cheekbone, “And I will totally, never ever do it again. Please don’t murder me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You really should. I’m a trustworthy guy. Super reliable. Ask anyone.”

The hand on his wrists pulls tighter. Stiles hisses.

“You know, my friend knew I was coming here,” which isn’t really a lie, because Scott may be a bit thick but he would figure out where Stiles went eventually, “so they’ll find the body.”

“I’m not going to leave one.”

“Does that mean you won’t kill me or that you’re going to dissolve my corpse in a tub of acid? Or eat me. Do werewolves actually eat people? Never mind, I don’t want to find out.” 

Derek gets up, peeling Stiles off the ground as he goes. The hand on Stiles’ head moves down, so his forearm rests uncomfortably over Stiles’ throat. The leather of his jacket sticks. 

“Walk,” Derek says and nudges him forward. 

Stiles is marched out front again, where he can look longingly at his Jeep before being turned towards the steps. The porch looks like it might collapse under them but they make it across and the door opens with a light kick.

“Oh God, please don’t make me go in there. It’s dark and creepy and it totally suits you, but not me. I’m more of a cottage-by-the-sea sort of guy, you know?”

Derek lets him go and shoves him forward hard enough to make him trip his way down to the singed floorboards. The door closes behind them.

Stiles crab-walks away as Derek advances, until he hits the stairs and Derek plants his foot on Stiles’ shoulder, pinning him down. 

“You need to learn,” the ridged heel of his runner digs into the tender flesh just beneath Stiles’ collarbone, “to stay away.”

“Already regretting not doing that. You can stop now.”

“What time does your father usually wake up?”

“I—what?”

“Tell me.” Derek punctuates by pressing down harder.

“Ow! Five! He has to work at six so he gets up at five!”

Derek lessens the pressure, “I’ll let you go at four then, just to be safe.”

“Or now. Now is good.”

Derek crouches, shifting his center of gravity and weighing down on Stiles even more heavily, “No. Because you know what you’ll do? You’ll go home and lick your wounds and then you’ll. Just. Come. Back.”

“I swear I won’t!”

“We both know that’s not true,” Derek moves his foot, finally, and straddles Stiles’ torso instead. He pushes his thumb into the dusty shoe print on Stiles’ shirt, right into the rapidly forming bruise. Stiles bucks, trying to throw him off and failing.

“I’ll make you want to stay away, Stilinski. You won’t even be able to think about me, or this house, without remembering what I’m about to do to you.”

The charred wood flakes under Stiles’ nails. 

Derek hauls Stiles to his feet and drags him around the stairs, into the back rooms. Stiles catches doorframes and gets yanked off them. He tries to go deadweight, but Derek doesn’t even miss a beat, swinging Stiles up over his shoulder and carrying him instead. His thrashing gets him nothing more than a few solid hits to Derek’s back, none of which the man reacts to in the slightest.

“I am not okay with this! Put me down! Le-”

Derek lets him go. 

He falls unceremoniously onto what he assumes is an old mattress. It’s too hard and too low to the ground to be a proper bed. Though, proper or not, it is a bed, which really just takes the situation in a whole new direction.

Derek bears down on him, yanking his open plaid shirt off his arms. 

“Woah! Stop!”

Derek grabs fistfuls of Stiles’ t-shirt next and Stiles yelps, “Ah! Claws! Put those away.”

His claws sink into the fabric and, with one smooth motion, Derek tears the shirt apart. Stiles stares, dumbfounded, as Derek removes the ruined fabric and keeps ripping. He only finds his voice in time for Derek to shove a balled up piece of shirt into his mouth, and by then it’s really too late. The material is dry and soft; wadded up thick enough and pushed far enough in that he can’t dislodge it with his tongue.

“You’re too noisy.”

Derek captures his hands again, looping another strip of fabric around one and pulling it tight. He ties it off on the other wrist, behind Stiles’ back. Stiles flexes his hands. The cotton has some give, but the knots are too tight to work free.

Pulling back to watch him, Derek reaches forward and strokes the reddened patch of skin just below Stiles’ shoulder. The touch is gentle, but Stiles leans away from it as much as he can without falling over.

Derek lets go then, only to grab his ankles and yank him off balance anyways. Stiles falls hard on his arms, his own knuckles digging into the small of his back. Moving between his legs, Derek skates his hands up the inseam of Stiles’ jeans to settle on his inner thighs.

Stiles tips his head back, focusing on the blackened wall and the nails he’s pressing into his own palms. Anything but the way Derek kneads the muscles, slow and a bit too hard.

He can’t ignore the way Derek’s teeth graze his bared throat or the way Derek bites down; human but piercing. Stiles writhes and Derek clamps down harder. 

The bite is followed up by a row of nips down Stiles’ jugular, each one just as sharp as the last. He pops the button on Stiles’ jeans while he does it, not that Stiles’ notices.

It takes some manoeuvring, but Derek rolls him onto his stomach. The mattress is musty and very nearly suffocating him, but at least his hands aren’t being crushed anymore. 

A hot mouth finds the bump of spinal cord on the back of Stiles’ neck, thumbs running over Stiles’ waistband, hooking in and dragging down. Derek stops when Stiles’ underwear and jeans are just below the curve of his ass.

Wriggling is probably the wrong move, but Stiles can’t help it. Derek’s stopped touching him and he can’t see what’s going on. Maybe Derek left; which would be awesome if it didn’t mean Stiles was alone, tied up and mostly naked in a building that was probably structurally unsound, if not haunted. 

Stiles tries to listen for Derek, but his heartbeat is loud in his ears, his own nervous energy making it impossible to focus. 

He rocks to the left. Then again. And again. If he can just pick up the momentum-

A hand lays flat between his bunched up shoulder blades, stilling him. 

There’s a sound, like quick puff of air, and something wet lands between the dimples on Stiles’ lower back. It takes Stiles a moment, but he realises that Derek just spat on him. He voices his outrage with a muffled shout.

Derek’s fingers slide down his spine, over his bound hands, avoiding the belated grab he makes for them. They drag through the spit and down further still, wetting the crease between his cheeks. Stiles whimpers when they press against his hole, firm and cool. Waiting.

He tucks his chin to his chest, forehead pressed into the mattress. Half of him just wants to buck back and kill the tension, get it over with. He doesn’t though. That would be giving up. 

“I think I like you better like this,” Derek says, fingers still just hovering, “quiet.”

Stiles lets out a litany of curses, every last one completely unintelligible.

“Mostly.”

And there, finally, Derek pushes in with a single digit. The ring of muscle burns, the spit almost completely dried away. Stiles whines into damp gag.

He dips in deep, crooking his finger so his nail drags against the vulnerable flesh. Out again, and then he’s thrusting shallowly, brushing purposefully over the rim. 

Trapped between the bed and his belly, Stiles’ cock is hard. The shame of it ignites his cheeks, the tips of his ears and all down his neck. He shouldn’t like it, he doesn’t like it, but the burn of it is fast turning into raw heat, coiling in his abdomen and snaking down his legs. 

And then Derek is gone again. The sound Stiles makes is pitiful; almost loud enough to drown out the whisper of clothes sliding over skin and dropping to the hardwood. 

Derek leans over him, shushing him and running a soothing hand over Stiles’ scalp. He sinks down slowly, flattening himself over the length of Stiles’ body. Stiles’ hands twitch against Derek’s naked belly, the tip of his cock brushing the pads of Stiles’ fingers. 

Stiles panics and tries to talk through the cloth because there is no way one finger and no lube counts as adequate prep. Derek ignores him, curling his hand around Stiles’ forehead and making Stiles arch as he slides lower. He nestles his chin in the juncture between Stiles’ neck and shoulder, stubble prickling. Breath hot on Stiles’ jaw, he ruts down against the boy’s ass. 

Derek is thick, pressing between Stiles’ cheeks and over his hole. He moves far enough back for the head to catch but not breech, then thrusts back up, forcing Stiles’ erection hard against the mattress. The glide is maddening, almost enough but never quite. Stiles digs his nails into Derek’s abs when he can, trying to drag him in or force him back, Stiles doesn’t even know.

The hand Derek doesn’t have on his face slips down Stiles’ torso, past his dick and to his balls. The touch proves too much and Stiles comes, back still forcibly arched and tears welling up despite himself. Derek licks away a salty bead and drops Stiles. Boneless, he hits the mattress with a soft grunt. 

Derek sits up then and grips Stiles’ hips, speeding up his rhythm. His nails lengthen into claws that dimple the skin, but Stiles doesn’t have the energy to even try protesting. He lets himself be used; limply pushed forward with each thrust and dragged back to meet the next one. 

When Derek comes, it’s with a growl, semen splattering over Stiles’ backside. He rolls down beside Stiles, gathering the boy close. Chest to chest, he nuzzles at the moles on Stiles’ cheek and forehead and says, low and lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world, “It’s only two o’clock.”

Because he does.

Stiles gives in and sobs.


	5. Scene Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek’s going to get to the get to the sheriff, through Stiles.
> 
> Warnings: noncon, dirty talk, threats, possessiveness, (light) choking, pinning, orgasm denial, begging.

Stiles won’t break Scott’s happy buzz. His friend is finally getting the normal life he wanted; star of the lacrosse team, kissing pretty girls in the locker room and all that jazz. He can’t put a damper on that.

He’ll tell Scott tomorrow. Until then he can’t focus on anything else but his own worry. He turns down Allison’s invitation to come with them and the team for pizza. Scott gives him a weird look, because they both know Lydia will be there, but Stiles just can’t right now. So he lets them leave and strips off. He showers in the dimly lit room, the whir of the fans and the beat of the water against tile loud in the stillness. His dad left after he got the call, he doesn’t have to be quick, so he takes his time and mulls it all over.

Derek probably won’t make a move tonight, when Scott is with all those people. So there’s that, at least.

Tomorrow though? Stiles has no idea. 

He’s rubbed his skin a raw red by the time he shuts the water off.

Rounding the corner to his locker, Stiles freezes. He clutches his towel tighter around his waist, stupidly, as if it will help. Maybe it will soak up some of the blood.

Derek Hale, resident murdering werewolf, is straddling the bench, leaning over so his elbows are on his knees, fingers laced loosely together and looking up at Stiles like Stiles dug up the partial corpse of his sister and got him arrested. Which Stiles had.

“Shit.”

Stiles doesn’t move because that would be stupid. Werewolves are probably like dogs; running away just makes you chaseable.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that Derek would go after him first. The guy seemed pretty focused on Scott. 

“So, if I start grovelling now, is there any chance of making it out of here alive?”

“Yes.”

“Really? That’s awesome! I mean... I really don’t want to die. I’m all my dad’s got, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Derek says, setting his mouth in a firm line, nostrils flaring. He stands, flowing up to his feet in a way too graceful to be normal.

Stiles swallows thickly, and resists the urge to step back. “That... sounds like it means something.”

“It means you’re going to give your father a message for me.”

Stiles does step back this time, instinct overwhelming. He doesn’t even notice Derek herding him into the lockers until his back hits metal.

“You know, I’m sure an email would work. Or a letter, if you’re feeling old-fashioned.”

“No, he needs to understand exactly why he should stay out of my way.”

“Leaving my mangled corpse on his doorstep really won’t make him do that.”

Derek’s hand presses flat on his lower abdomen, pushing him back into the lockers. They rattle at the impact, not quite loud enough to cover Stiles’ hitched breath. 

“It won’t, but you will, Stiles. You’re going to make sure he stays away from me, because you’re going to know exactly what will happen to you if you don’t.” Derek smiles then, pinched and cruel. 

Derek’s other hand closes around the one Stiles still has clutching his towel. He pries it off, slamming it into the locker and keeping it there. The towel slithers down his legs and pools around his curling toes.

Stiles’ mouth drops open, skin alight. With the way Derek’s looking down at him, he’s never felt so utterly bare.

Derek grabs his free hand before he can even think about covering himself, caging it in against the lockers as well. Derek slides them both up over his head, one broad hand wrapping tightly around Stiles’ thin wrists. Pinning him like that, Derek slips his other hand between Stiles and the locker, blunt nails scraping down his spine. Hand splayed over Stiles’ ass, middle and ring fingers sliding down the cleft, holding Stiles apart, Derek pulls Stiles’ hips up against his.

Stiles shuts his eyes and just feels. The rough scrape of Derek’s jeans. The cool sting of the air. 

“What if I can’t stop him?”

Derek’s hand flexes on his ass, “You’ll find a way, or I’ll find you. And when I do...”

Derek’s middle finger pushes in, dry and foreign. Stiles recoils from it but there’s nowhere to go; he only manages to trap his cock even more firmly.

Derek leans in, mouth against Stiles’ ear, voice low and saccharine, “I’m going to fuck you raw.”

The finger curls and Stiles’ breath turns watery.

Then Derek lets him go. The finger slips out and Stiles finds his hands suddenly falling free. He has a brief moment of relief before Derek picks him up bodily and all but throws him down on the bench. Stiles plants his feet, but he doesn’t feel any more stable, given the way his legs spread wide over the wood. 

Derek closes his hand around Stiles’ throat, palm warm against his Adam’s apple. Stiles grabs Derek’s wrist and pulls but it’s hopeless. He settles for leaving deep, red crescents in Derek’s skin as the man settles between his thighs. 

“You’re good at talking Stiles,” Derek says, fishing a small bottle out of his jacket pocket and twisting the cap off with his teeth, “so you’re going to talk right now.”

“And say what?” Stiles asks shakily, transfixed by the way the lube spills clear and slick over Derek’s fingers.

“You’re going to tell me,” Derek’s middle finger slides back in, wet but no less foreign, “exactly why I’m doing this.”

He thrusts once, twice, adds another finger, “So I know you understand our arrangement.”

Stiles whimpers at the stretch, feels the hand on his throat tighten.

“Talk, Stiles.”

“Shit, ah! Okay! Okay!” He stares up at the ceiling, watches the steady flicker of light pouring in through the gaps between the moving fan blades, “You... You don’t want to get arrested again.”

Derek’s fingers separate and twist, coring him. Stiles yelps. Breathes. Keeps talking.

“S-So you want me to keep Dad off your tail.” Derek pulls out to the last knuckle then thrusts back in with a third finger, making Stiles keen.

“And if you don’t?” Derek prompts, cool and unaffected.

“If I don’t you’ll... you’ll...” Stiles claws at Derek’s arm, eyes closing and hips bucking. It feels too good, and maybe if Derek wanted to threaten him he shouldn’t have pulled out the lube, because Stiles is one step away from coming, fear of death or no.

Derek pulls out and grabs the base of his cock hard. Stiles shouts, clenching down on nothing. The pain pushes back the orgasm. He’s leaking precome like a broken faucet and the pressure burns. 

“God, please! Derek-”

“I’ll do what?”

“Derek-”

“Tell me!”

“Fuck me! You’ll fuck me! Please!”

Derek lets his prick go but he’s already come down off the edge. He shakes under the hand Derek’s still got pressed tight to his throat. Sweat glues him to the lacquered bench. His body burns.

Knee’s sliding down under Stiles’ thighs, hand slipping around to the back of Stiles’ neck, Derek pulls him up into his lap. Stiles curls his fingers into Derek’s jacket, listening to the leather creak.

“I own you now, Stiles,” Derek says, rough pads of his fingers skating down Stiles’ back to where he’s still loose and open. He pushes three in again, not bothering to start slow. 

Stiles drops his head to Derek’s shoulder and whines. 

“No one else will know it, but you will. Every move you make, you’re going to think of me first.” He’s fucking Stiles now, hard thrusts driving his fingers in deep. The friction sends electricity humming through Stiles, a constant buzz that has him tightening his thighs on Derek’s waist.

“You’re mine, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Stiles mumbles into his shoulder, mouth dry and tongue thick.

Derek’s nails dig into the nape of his neck, “Say it, Stiles.”

Derek’s fingers hook and black spots flicker over Stiles’ vision. His mouth opens but there’s no sound. 

“Say it,” Derek repeats, as his fingers start drawing out. Slowly.

When they’re a second from coming away completely Stiles buries his face in the crook of Derek’s neck and breathes, “I’m yours.”

He half hopes that Derek didn’t hear it, that he can deny ever saying it, but then Derek’s fingers are sliding home and he’s tipping off the precipice. Tumbling down and crashing hard, right into Derek’s abs if the way he’s sticking to Derek’s shirt is any indication. The cloying scent of sex hangs heavy in the air. He needs another shower.

If Derek cares about his shirt, he doesn’t say anything. He stands, letting Stiles slide off his lap and fall onto the bench. 

Stiles watches him with wide eyes and blown pupils, trying to find a name for the new kind of emptiness he’s feeling. 

Derek smirks down at him for a moment, then swings one foot back over the bench. He walks away. Stiles hears the locker room door swing shut.

Used. That’s the word.


	6. Scene Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles decides he’s not just going to sit back and let Derek kill people.
> 
> Warnings: Noncon, drugging, dirty talk(including some victim blaming dialogue), (mild) pain play, bondage.

The flash-bang was planted, not shot from a crossbow. Derek stumbles back and then falls hard, legs suddenly tangled in something. The handcuffs are on his wrists before he can even get his claws out. 

When his vision comes back to him the Sheriff’s kid is sitting astride his chest. 

“You.”

“Me,” he smirks and pulls something. Derek’s arms are jerked up over his head, held taught by a chain connecting the cuffs to a tree. 

The kid shimmies down his body and tweaks the thin ropes wrapped around his legs. Bolas, Derek realises, with little purple flowers tied to the weights.

“Like ‘em? I made them myself,” he wiggles the fingers of the hand he’s not using to check the ropes, “I’m crafty like that. And the internet has some pretty helpful how-to’s. The wolfsbane was my idea though.”

Derek thumps his head back against the forest floor, trying to ignore the slow tingling sensation the plant is causing. 

He hadn’t noticed the kid much before; just that he was Scott’s friend and talked too much. Heck, Derek still doesn’t even know his first name. Evidently, there’s more to him than Derek thought.

The kid gives him a mean little smile, “Now, since my Dad had to let you out of lock-up, I figured I should be a bit more proactive. Stop you before you try to murder my friends and all that.”

“I’m not trying to kill your friends,” Derek snarls, canines lengthening. They retract quickly though, forced away by the wolfsbane. 

“That’s funny, I’m pretty sure you told Scott you’d kill him if he played in the game. And he played. Given our past encounters, I’m not really sure I trust you to not rip his intestines out.”

“Let me go.”

“What, not even a ‘Please Stiles’? Rude.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “You want a cherry on top too?”

Stiles’ eyebrows rise halfway to his forehead. The kid has the most ridiculous face. “You made a joke! Oh man, and here I thought you were just tall, dark and broody.”

Derek tugs at the chains just to hear them rattle. The cuffs are police grade, which isn’t all that surprising, considering. Normally that would have been fine, but he’s about as strong as the average human at the moment. 

“Now, down to business,” Stiles says, wriggling a little where he’s perched on Derek’s thighs, getting comfortable, “Scott needs help. He can’t control his werewolf thing yet. You know it. I know it.”

Derek grunts. His strength isn’t draining any more but the tingling is spreading. 

“But I’m not willing to put my best friend down, so he’s going to have to learn.”

Derek clenches his fists as a pleasant warmth curls its way up into his abdomen. 

“And he’s going to need someone to teach him.”

His jacket is suddenly too hot. The cold night air isn’t even touching him anymore.

“As far as I can tell, you’re the only qualified person we know. So whether we like it or n- oh my god, are you hard?” Stiles jerks back, looking very pointedly at Derek’s crotch.

Derek’s breathing has gone thin, “What kind of wolfsbane did you use?”

“It can do that?” He sounds curious, his initial surprise completely gone.

“Get it off, Stiles.”

Stiles twists to look at the bolas. He turns back to Derek with a grin. It looks wrong, too wide and white for his shadowed face. 

“Stiles-”

“No. I want to do an experiment. How long can I keep you like this until you break and beg me to get you off in exchange for training Scott?”

“Get the hell off me Stilinski!”

Stiles taps his cheek; two quick slaps, “Come on now Derek. Do it for science.”

Derek tries to turn on his side and throw Stiles off, but Stiles’ thin fingers press hard into his flesh. He feels the pressure keenly, just beneath his ribs, making him curl in on himself instead. The movement causes Stiles to slide down his thighs and brush against his erection. All the air leaves his lungs in one sharp gust.

“Hypothesis: The more I tease you, the quicker you’ll give in,” Stiles says, pushing his shirt up. Derek’s jacket is still on, so the wifebeater just bunches up at his collarbone. Stiles scrapes his nails down the length of Derek’s torso, leaving behind bright red streaks. 

He bends, pressing harder into Derek’s crotch, and bites down on Derek’s left pectoral. The sound Derek makes is low and guttural. The noise Stiles makes in return is pure filth. 

The boy leaves imprints of his teeth all the way down to the waistband of Derek’s jeans.

“You like it rough don’t you?” His nails dig in and move up across the bites mark, over Derek’s clothed shoulders and onto his biceps, “Would you fuck me, if you could?”

He clutches at Derek’s arms for leverage, dragging himself up the length of Derek’s body. The friction has Derek tilting his head back, eyes focusing intently on the canopy just to keep himself sane.

Stiles grabs his head in both hands, palms curved to Derek’s cheeks and forcing him to look at Stiles, “I bet you would. How would you do it? Would you throw me down wherever you caught me? Pin me and just go for it right there? Oh, or maybe you’d bend me over my Jeep and fuck me into the grille.”

He kisses Derek then, open mouthed and burning. Derek catches Stiles’ bottom lip between his teeth. Stiles digs his nails in again. Derek bites harder.

Letting out a soft ‘hah’ and somehow managing to grin, Stiles shifts his leg so his knee grinds hard against Derek’s groin. Derek releases Stiles’ lip in a wordless shout. 

“Or maybe,” Stiles says, slowly, nipping Derek’s jaw line, “you’d rather have me fuck you.”

The links of chain clang together when he fights them. The cuffs are unforgiving against the flex of his wrists.

“Oh wow. Who would have guessed? You want some scrawny high school kid to stick his cock in you and make you come.”

If the growl he was going for comes out more like a groan, Derek has the perfectly legitimate excuse of wolfsbane poisoning.

“Do you think about it? What it would be like if someone opened you up and pounded into you? Are you thinking about what it would be like if I did that, right now?”

Derek tries to turn his head but Stiles is still holding his face tight. His jeans are actually hurting him now, far too tight and in the way. 

“Would you trade that for training Scott? I could screw you once for every session you have with him.”

“Stiles...”

“Yeah?”

“You talk too much.”

Stiles lets his face go and slithers back down to sit on Derek’s legs. He pops the button on Derek’s jeans, “I doubt that. My talking seems to be working pretty well for you.”

He pulls Derek’s jeans down to his knees, where they get stuck on the chords. 

“Commando? Really?” Stiles leers, “You’re just asking for it, aren’t you Derek? Do you walk around like this all the time, just waiting for someone to find out your dirty little secret and exploit it?”

Derek glares down at his own exposed prick, as if sheer force of will could stop precome from beading up at the tip.

Stiles kneads the muscles of his thighs. It feels better than it should; releasing tension he wasn’t even aware of. From there, Stiles slides one hand up, thumb curving under to stroke the crease between thigh and ass. Derek’s muscles constrict all over again.

Keeping the one hand between Derek’s legs, Stiles lies down beside him, a burning line all up his side. 

He tucks his head into the space between Derek’s upraised arm and neck, his fingers drifting over Derek’s hole lightly. Derek’s legs clamp down on his wrist. It has the unintended effect of pushing Stiles’ forearm up against his balls, making him inhale sharply through his nose. He’s suddenly inundated by the scent of Stiles; of sweat and sugar and coffee.

“Stop.”

Stiles hums and strokes, “I wish I had lube. I could really fuck you then. Just roll you over and push right in...”

He bites down on the tendon at the side of Derek’s neck. Derek grits his teeth, “I’m not going to murder you friends. I’m going to murder you. I swear, Stilinski, when I get out-”

“When you get out? Maybe I’ll just keep you like this,” Stiles applies a little more pressure, making Derek’s legs fall open against his will, “Well, not like this exactly. Not here. Out in the open, anyone could find you.”

Derek pants, hyper aware of the sweat gathering on his skin. 

“Can you imagine? You’re an attractive guy, Derek. Anyone who stumbled across you, all bound up and turned on... well who could blame them right?”

He drags his fingers up Derek’s perineum and cups his sack, “They wouldn’t be nice like me though. They’d probably just flip face down in the dirt and split you open with their pricks. They’d take turns until you thought you couldn’t take anymore and then they’d just keep going, because they wouldn’t care about what you wanted like I would. No, they’d use you. And when they were finally done they’d leave you, tied up and dripping with their come, until someone else came along to fuck you.”

Derek whines, high and long, eyes squeezed shut. Stiles kisses the patch of skin just beneath his ear, “But neither of us want that, do we, Derek? I don’t want anyone else to have you, at least. But I could get up right now and just leave you, if I really needed to. My friends are more important to me than a piece of ass. Even if you are a hot one.”

“Stiles...” He’s so close he’s shaking. 

“I’ll take care of you if you let me. All you have to do is promise.”

“Fine! I’ll train Scott. Just-” Derek cuts himself off with a groan, Stiles’ long fingers curling around his cock. 

“Mm, good boy.”

The way Stiles twists his wrist on every upstroke feels too good for Derek to be able to glare at him properly. 

“God, Derek,” Stiles lets go and Derek bites back a sob. The teen is swinging a leg over him, sitting on his lap again. Stiles undoes his own pants, spits into his palm and grips both their cocks together, “You’re too damn hot for your own good, you know that?”

He’s scratching Derek again, criss-crossing his chest viciously. The sting just melts into the pleasure. 

“Stile-,” Derek drops off breathlessly before he can finish the word.

“Jesus.” Stiles speeds up, looses all the flourish and just strips their cocks. He leans forward, mouthing Derek’s chin, his lower lip, slipping his tongue into Derek’s open mouth. Derek sucks hard, fine tremors running through his bones. Stiles moans.

When he comes his heels dig in and he arches off the ground. Stiles scrambles to hold on with his free hand, his thighs clamping down to keep from being thrown off. Derek drops back to the ground, numb and sore in turns. Stiles drops Derek’s dick and finishes jacking himself off, come like a brand where it lands on Derek’s hip. 

“Hah, well,” Stiles wipes his hand off on Derek’s jeans and tucks himself back in, “I’d call that experiment a success.”

Derek bares his teeth but he really doesn’t have the energy to do much more. Stiles untangles the ropes and unlocks the cuffs. 

“Scott and I will be back on Monday. See you then,” Stiles says, far too sing-songy. He walks away whistling, bolas swinging in a wide circle. 

Derek lies in the grass and leaves, contemplating the stick that he’s only just noticed stabbing him in the spine.


End file.
